To Zouch Troughton, Esq., the author of "Nina Sforza," This Little Comedy is Affectionately dedicated, in remembrancwe of early days, and all their many dramatic associations, by his brother, The Author.
Gillingham, Kent. Oct. 25th, 1854.
First Performed at the Royal Princess's Theatre, Oct. 9th, 1854.
Scene—Prudent's House In London.
Time in Performance, Forty-Three Minutes.
There's your mistress's bell, Mary, —why don't you answer it?
Were you asleep, Sir, that you kept us waiting in the cold?
Asleep, Sir?—me, Sir? Not I, Sir!
Hallo! you've let the fire out.
No I didn't, Sir—it went out of itself.
Ah! there's still a lingering spark or two. Now, William, a slight sprinkling of coals, and we may coax it up again.
Zounds! now you have put it out; so get out yourself.
I am completely tired out.
So am I. By Jove! this constant night-work quite knocks one up. Soirée—ball!—ball—soirée!—night after night! I really must give it up, Where are we going to-morrow?
Nowhere we shall spend a quiet evening together,—won't that be delightful?
Very. We'll have a game at cribbage, or double-dummy, eh?—go to bed with the
sparrows at seven, and rise with the lark at eleven.
By-the-bye, Julia, how you did dance to-night!
Didn't I?—like a madcap !
Yes, uncommonly like a madcap. I don't believe you missed a single quadrille or polka.
How could you tell?—you were in the card-room all the evening.
Yes, playing at short whist—half-crown points; and as I had a partner who
didn't know hearts from spades, and could scarcely tell clubs from diamonds, of
course I lost my money. Don't be angry. my Queen of Hearts was in the quadrille. Upon my word, you danced
enchantingly. I heard some fellows say—"Who is that beautiful girl opposite,
with the white roses in her hair? What an exquisite creature!—what grace!—what a
lovely form!" "Yes, gentlemen," thought I, "I perfectly agree with you about her
form—and must be the best judge, because she is my wife."
Nonsense, Charles, I don't believe you.
Yes you do.
I beg your pardon, Sir, but I thought you would like to see the evening papers.
The evening papers!—why, we shall have the "Times" here in an hour.
And if you please, Sir, a gentleman called in the evening and left this card.
Good gracious, Charles, look!
Your uncle! I had no idea he was in town.
The gentleman said he had only just arrived from Manchester, Sir. He called while you and my mistress were at Mrs. Orby's, and a very inquisitive gentleman he appeared to be, Sir—asked me fifty different questions in a breath.
The deuce he did! — what about?
All sorts of things, Sir; —what your style of living was—how many servants
you kept—how often you received company and how often you went out—whether you
attended Tattersall's, or the theatres, or any other such wicked
places.
Vey well: that will do.
Take away the lamp, it's broad daylight!
Yes, Ma'am.
Don't you think it was rather singular of the old gentleman to cross-examine William in that magisterial sort of way? Hang it, we don't live in Bow Street!
Nay, you know what a good kind uncle he is to us, and what an interest he takes in all our doings.
Oh yes, Uncle Cotton's a capital old fellow! and devilish handsomely he came down with his bobbins on our marriage—there is no denying that.
Very well, very well—I will just step in, then, as they are not yet gone to bed.
Our landlord!
The exquisite Captain Craven Plausible ! he's really very attentive,
Particularly so—especially about quarter-day.
Good morning! It was really too bad of you, Prudent, to steal away in that manner from the ball, when you promised me a seat home in your carriage.
Pshaw! you were up to your ears at ecarté. Of course you won. By the bye, people say you always do win.
No such thing. Of course, if the cards will run in my favour, I can't help that.
Well, what with cards running in your favour, and five thousand a year into the bargain, I should feel disposed to set you down as a tolerably happy, jolly sort of fellow.
Happy! Money is not always happiness.
No, but it's rather an important ingredient. "Love in a cottage" is all very well, but quarter-day will come round, and then in comes the infernal landlord. I don't mean that—I— What were you about to observe ?
That when a finely strung sensibility of disposition, ardently yearning for sympathy, is, by the force of circumstances, driven back upon itself, there to feed and prey, the soul, my friend, becomes a void—I repeat, the soul becomes a void.
Does it, indeed?
My dear, really it's very rude of you to yawn when our friend says his soul becomes a void. I don't exactly know what he means, but I presume that the fact of a gentleman's soul becoming a void is rather disagreeable than otherwise.
And yet I should have thought that with Mrs. Plausible—
My wife! And you can think so?—with that figure! fourteen stone! a beauty, too, of fifty! Poor Amanda! I don't blame her—I accuse nobody but myself, and the extreme sensibility of my disposition.
How do you mean?
I admit it was a false step a strange infatuation, but what was I to do? A
younger son, with nothing to exist upon but three hundred a year and my pay,
which of course I never did exist upon. Besides, it was not altogether
that; you know she doats—absolutely doats upon me, and, although youth, a
tolerable person, and a good family, are no great things now-a-days without
fortune, yet in my case—my unhappy case, they proved but too attractive; for
when her husband died and left her five thousand a year, I may say she
insisted—positively insisted, upon marrying me.
Really, Plausible you'll excuse my smiling.
No——I assure you——I am serious. And so, to save her life, victim of an overwrought excessive complaisance—my weak point—I yielded to her wishes. You know the rest: Amanda, happy and proud of her choice, enjoys the most extraordinary health, whilst I, enslaved with a golden chain, strive to keep up my spirits as well as I can. In town, when not on guard, I try to kill thought at the Opera, the French Plays, and in society, where I meet all the world, excepting my wife—who, indeed, I rarely meet at all; and in the country I endeavour to recruit exhausted nature with field sports. But, as I have already said, pleasure is not happiness, and your unfortunate friend is a miserable man!
Well, Captain Plausible, you must come and see us as much you can, and we will try our best to console you won't we, Charles ?
Ah, you are exceedingly kind; and by way of availing myself of your permission, I'll ask a dinner of you to-day; for, as I said before, "when the soul becomes a void".
The best thing you can do is to fill up the vacuum with oceans of soup, pyramids of patties, and wine ad infinitum.
Exactly. Besides I am a bachelor for the day; my wife dines out; and then
Very well, you can settle the matter together, for
Ring up Mary? what for? Poor Mary! let Mary indulge in her horizontal position—let me be Mary,
Oh, nonsense!
Excuse me for a moment. Ha, ha! you'll find the evening papers on the table.
Lucky dog! I envy him. While he is fooling with his wife, I have the
more leisure for thinking of mine —delightful occupation!
Now, my good friend, I am entirely at your disposal.
Well then, this is what I wanted to say to you. You must know, while you were at the club yesterday, I had a little private conversation with your wife. Don't be jealous.
Of you?—oh dear no! Go on.
She was lamenting to me that she had no conservatory over the leads, like most of my other houses in the square.
Well ?
Well then, if you are agreeable, I shall have all
Certainly, —a conservatory would be a great improvement, especially as we neither of us know a rose from a sunflower.
Now, I thought that you and I could so arrange the matter between us—don't
you see?—that you might anticipate her wishes with a little surprise, and I
might—slightly raise your rent.
To be sure of course!
As a friend, I shall charge you a mere bagatelle —thirty or forty pounds a-year.
Not more? I am afraid you're robbing yourself. Let me see. I pay you for the house at present, two hundred and sixty-five;—with the conservatory, which I don't care a straw about, it will be—
In round numbers, say three hundred a-year. A mere trifle, I assure you, and not worth thinking about.
Then don't think about it, you'll oblige me by not thinking about
it. Besides, you know I am in daily expectation of being appointed to a capital
place under Government.
Oh indeed!
Yes, it has been promised me for some time by the Secretary of the Home Department, he and my father were old college chums. By-the-bye though, Plausible, I must make a little request of you. It is not unlikely you may meet my wife's uncle Cotton at dinner to-day, he is just arrived in town.
Cotton! A sort of Manchester manufacturer, is he not?
Yes. Don't say anything to him about this addition to the house, or the three hundred a-year rent we pay you.
Rent? My dear fellow, do people ever talk of such matters ?
I wish they didn't. Cotton's an excellent old fellow—the best friend we have,
indeed; but to confess the truth, since my marriage (it's always the case, you
know) we have been living rather fast; and these steady-going business people in
the country entertain rather
In the meanwhile, if you find yourself in the least pressed, draw upon me. If you don't use me as a friend, I shall be seriously offended with you.
Now really this is very handsome.
If you make any nonsensical scruples, I shall quarrel with you.
No, I promise you—
Eight o'clock, I suppose ?
Yes.
Good bye, then, till dinner-time.
No, I think not, my wife's tired, and we shall retire early.
Ah! you're right. Well, I don't care much about the Opera myself.
No, Julia remains at home, and I keep her company.
Keep her company?—he does nothing else. I'll write—it will be the better way.
Good bye!
I have told them to get it ready. But look here. Don't talk about breakfast.
Shut your mouth and open your eyes, and see what Julia'll send you.
Give it me—give it me! It's my place! I wonder what it is? Under Secretary of State perhaps—or Ranger of one of the Parks—or— Well, whatever it is, it comes just at the right moment; for, though I haven't had the courage to tell you so before, upon my word I was never more in want of money in my life.
Poor fellow! What! quite a bankrupt ?
Never mind! Here's my discharge—here's that will soon bring me through the
Court!
I don't see anything to laugh at, my dear;—you ought to feel intensely
gratified that your husband's merits are properly appreciated. It isn't often
the Home Secretary appreciates anything except the new Police.
Disagreeable old gentleman, to raise our hopes just for the malicious pleasure of disappointing them! It's really too bad of him!
What shall I do to be revenged? I'll lampoon him in the papers—turn political economist, and write down all his measures!
Never mind, dear——it isn't worth being angry about,——don't let it vex you.
Why, it's a positive insult! Prefer Harcourt to me! You see, Julia, what it is to have no children. If we'd had a dozen or two, I should have got the place.
Let the place go, dearest, rather than disturb you like this. After all, we have still our fifteen hundred a-year.
Eh? yes, we have still that is, we had it last year—but now, I'm
afraid—
Afraid of what? Is anything the matter?
Upon my word that's more than I can tell you——I keep no account of my expenditure.
Nor I—that's the husband's occupation.
Our principal occupation I think, Julia, for the last twelve months, has been making love, in which economical amusement I have spent, I believe, about twice my income.
Twice your income?
Yes, there or thereabouts. Well, how was I to help it? You know I counted all along upon this confounded place. How the deuce should I know it was necessary to have a large and increasing family?—and, in the meanwhile, what could be more delightful to me than anticipating all your wishes?
Yes, you have indeed been very kind to me; but never mind, all we've got to do is to hit upon some nice little plan of retrenchment, and then, with care and economy—
Economy! Well, that will be something new, at all events.
No mocking, Sir. Come, now, I'll tell you all about it.
But hadn't we better postpone it till after breakfast?—because you see the coffee's getting cold.
No, certainly not. What a greedy man you are! Why can't you eat and talk too?
A capital suggestion! Come, sit down.
What shall we begin upon?
I shall begin with this cold roast beef.
We must do away with all unnecessary expenses.
I see—no more luxuries—some of that pheasant pie. For instance, cut down all tailors' and milliners' bills at one fell swoop.
Oh no, that will never do—a handsome toilet has become one of the necessaries
of life: we must study appearances so far, but we'll keep a quieter
table—no more large dinners.
I perfectly agree with you—no more large dinners. By the bye, you mustn't forget that we shall sit down seven or eight to-day, without counting Plausible, and your Uncle Cotton. Now let it be nicely done everything of the very best—but no expense.
Of course, my dear.
On second thoughts, I don't know what to say about no more dinners—if you go out you must receive in return—we cannot do otherwise.
Do you think so?
I have it! My valet—he has been impudent to me more than once.
Nonsense! how can you possibly do without him? Just conceive the fatigue of brushing your own coat! Better discharge my maid.
Send away Mary? Now that's taking advantage of my good nature, because I hooked-and-eyed you this morning.
Stay! how ridiculous not to think of it before—we'll put down the carriage.
What, part with my brougham and my beautiful greys? Why, you'll be riding in damp omnibusses, or going out on foot in bad weather, and catch your death of cold. Sell my carriage! No, anything in reason, but I can't do that. My country house if you like.
No, Charles; the dear old place has a thousand
Not for the world, if it would give you pain. I would rather sell the coat off my back than part with a stone from the walls or a shrub from the garden.
Dear, dear Charles! how good you are to me!
Now, let us see how does our plan of retrenchment stand at present? Bellevue we keep.
And the carriage.
Your maid.
Your valet.
Give our dinners as usual,
No alterations in dress.
But in everything else, my dear Julia, I must beg—nay, if I could use a harsh word, I should say I must insist—upon the strictest, the most rigid economy.
Come in.
Your dressmaker, Ma'am, wishes to see you.
Yes, Ma'am.
Why not pay the woman at once?
How much is it?
Well, dear, I think the account amounts to—nearly a hundred and fifty pounds.
A hundred and fifty pounds? The devil! Some more of your economy!
Surely you don't consider that too much in six months?
Six months?
Don't scold me. I was afraid to speak to you before about it, because I have
given her what they call a bill. You know what I mean?
Yes, I have heard of such things. So you have given her a bill, eh?
Yes, which comes due to-day, they call it coming due, don't they?
Yes, I believe that's the expression.
Wasn't that right? My dressmaker told me it was quite a common practice for young married ladies of fashion to give bills payable by their husbands.
What! have you been giving a bill too?
One? Fifty!
In debt? I'm astonished!
Why, you're not going to reproach me, after what has just come to light?
A year's income spent in advance, and a thousand pounds in debt beside.
Eleven hundred and fifty, thanks to your little dressmaker's bill.
To tradesmen and workpeople too, who are in want of the money.
In want of it—who can enforce the payment of it!
What's to be done?
There's only one thing that I know of, and that I don't half like.
What is it?
Why, to have recourse to some of my rich relations; there's my aunt Lady Elizabeth—by the bye, she was to be here this morning. What say you to appealing to the old lady's generosity ?
Lady Elizabeth! Oh, no—let us do without her if we possibly can, she is so haughty. Let us rather apply to my dear uncle Cotton.
Well, I don't know.
Oh, I am sure he'll assist us, and it's the most
Yes, but to confess the truth, as old Cotton is always preaching economy to
us; and having no particular fancy for old Cotton's lectures, I've been in the
habit of writing to old Cotton every month for some time past, telling old
Cotton that all was going on swimmingly.
Mercy me, Charles! What could make you tell him such a story ?
It wasn't altogether a fib at first. I thought I was saving—upon my
life I did.
The gentleman, Ma'am, who came last evening, has called again!
My uncle! Take away the breakfast things, and shew him in immediately.
Yes, Ma'am.
Tell her Ladyship—I'll be with her directly.
Yes, Sir.
Why don't you go to her?
It's very extraordinary, now that it has come to the push, I feel as if I
would as lieve face a she tiger. Pshaw! courage—It's only my aunt!
Shall I go for you?
Do, there's an angel—you'll manage the old lady better than I should.
There's nothing to frighten me, and yet I am shaking all over.
Poor girl! don't tremble so. Come, then, you sha'n't go.
Oh yes I will that kiss has given me courage.
My dear uncle, how d'ye do? I'm so glad to see you!
How d'ye do? how d'ye do? We've been expecting you all the morning.
Yes, my dear, to be sure. Something quite plain—just one joint.
One joint? you shall have a dozen!
Lady Elizabeth ?—we arrived together.
I'm rejoiced to hear you say so, for I won't deny at one time I was not without my anxieties as to the result of the match.
How could you doubt it?
I don't allude to your family——That silly old woman,
Yes, I ought to have had five thousand. No, I don't mean
I feared you'd never have the moral courage to retrench.
Because I know the pernicious pride and false shame of people in the fashionable world. Having once started beyond their means, they consider themselves, as it were, compelled to go on. Many a man with sense enough to know better, has suffered himself to be entirely ruined through the silly fear and dread of his neighbours. I call such a man a fool.
But you soon showed me by your letters that I was deceived in you—that you were a more sensible fellow than I took you to be.
Yes.
An excellent plan! an excellent plan!—and see how satisfactory the result has been: for I find by your letter of last week, that you are putting away money.
Yes, we've managed to put away a good deal of money.
So much the better. Now, my dear fellow, I dare say you'd like to consult me as to some little investment.
Now, if it meet your wish, this is what I have to
These late discontents among the work-people have so completely upset all manufacturing transactions, that things are quite at a stand-still with me: in short—to say nothing of some rather heavy losses I've had lately, from a quarter where I least expected it if I am not able to make up seventeen hundred pounds before night, I shall be put to an inconvenience that may seriously affect my credit on Change.
Unfortunately I have only a thousand pounds by me. Now it struck me, there's
my nephew Prudent, living at his ease in London, with money in hand lying
idle—Don't you see?
You'd have felt hurt if I had applied to any one else, wouldn't you?
Now, what I want is seven hundred pounds—that's all.
Oh, you're sure that's all?
And that's the sum, I believe, you have by you—at least so you wrote me word.
Very well then, are you disposed to accommodate me? What's the matter with you?
You needn't say another word. I see how it is you refuse.
You do me injustice—indeed you do. You shall have the money, only give me
time to arrange with my banker. us shall be given
to my uncle.
I thank you Charles, thank you. I beg your pardon for having misunderstood you. I hope I haven't wounded your feelings. I thank'ye my darling boy—I thank'ye. I'm up to the ears in business as you may suppose. I shall be closeted with my agent till twelve o'clock, so you can send the money after me. Good bye, good bye.
Make yourself perfectly easy, I'll be sure to send; you may depend upon me.
Thank'ye, thank'ye—excuse me to Julia. Good bye.
A precious predicament I am in, upon my soul! Just at the very moment too
that I was going to borrow money of him.
Settled? Oh yes, the business is quite settled !
What's the matter? you're agitated.
Agitated! I'm in a towering passion! Oh, what a creature! if you only knew what I have had to put up with! When I told her of our difficulties, and of the sum you were in such pressing want of (I never asked her to lend it us)—if you had only seen the insolent airs she put on! First, she told me she was rather short—
Never mind what she said—perhaps she called you ugly.
No, I shouldn't have minded that because it's an obvious absurdity—but she told me that I never loved you, and that I only married you for position. I couldn't bear that, and I retorted everything that a belied and wounded spirit could suggest, —that we could easily dispense with her favours, for that we had many good and kind friends to trust to—and so we parted, both of us, sworn foes.
Regular Turk and Russian—eh? You did quite right, Julia, to resent her impertinence, but don't you think you went a little too far?
There now! if you're not going to take her part! Why should we put up with her insults, when we've my dear uncle still left us ?
Your uncle ?
Of course—you've told him all?
No, I haven't; you see there's a certain delicacy in these matters. I did sound him.
Wouldn't he hear what you had to say to him?
No, no; you mistake.
Promised to lend him seven hundred pounds, when you haven't as many pence?
You've brought things to a pretty pass, —you know my only hope was in my
aunt, and now you've turned her out of the house.
No, no; if I had been there I should have done the same thing myself if it had been my uncle instead of my aunt, perhaps worse—I might have kicked him. What on earth are we to do?
Have you no other relations you could apply to ?
What, to meet with the same treatment all over again? My relations! no, I have had enough of my relations!—rather than have recourse to them again, I'll quit London this very night. London! damn London! I hate it.
Oh, money, money! well may it be called the root of all evil! How unhappy I am!
We'll go down to Bellevue.
Ah, yes! in the country we shall be able to lay by—
I'll cut down all my wood—turn farmer, and crop the entire park—convert my gardens into meadows, and graze sheep in them! Anything and everything for the sake of making money! There'll be no temptation there for us to run into extravagance!
Yes, you're right.
The dressmaker.
The coachmaker has called again, Sir. He says he is sorry to press you, but would be much obliged if you would let him have his account.
And please, Sir, there's the jeweller, and the upholsterer, and the——
I thought so. Show them all into my study, and tell them to wait till I come.
Can't you ask for more time?
Yes, but these are not the only creditors; and think of having to expose the state of our affairs to the whole bevy of them to confess our inability to pay. My face burns at the bare idea!
Hush hush, for heaven's sake! Here comes William.
Captain Plausible is in the next room, and has asked to see my mistress. He says if you are engaged, Sir, he will not disturb you.
Very well.
I'm in the humour to receive visitors, truly!
Plausible!
Indeed! how very kind of him.
Yes, exactly. I was going to observe that I had done myself the honour of
calling about—about the conservatory.
There will be no occasion to trouble you; we have decided upon doing without it.
As long as you like. How much do you want?
A very large sum indeed, eleven hundred and fifty pounds.
The deuce—that's more than I bargained for.
Eleven hundred and fifty! You forget your uncle.
Ah, yes. An uncle, Captain Plausible, to whom we owe everything, and who, like yourself, is a tried and valued friend.
Seven hundred pounds.
Eleven hundred and fifty, and seven hundred, make eighteen hundred and fifty.
Say two thousand pounds, and take a mortgage upon my place in the country, which has been valued at twenty thousand pounds.
Between friends there's no occasion for security; just sign me an acknowledgment of the debt, and we won't talk about mortgaging Bellevue.
You're a deuced good fellow, Plausible.
Very well.
Now, then, I'll write and tell your uncle that the seven hundred pounds will be ready for him—
In an hour's time.
I thank you. Now, then, for my friends in the study there. A few short hours
and I shall be out of debt except to friendship
Will you allow me to ring the bell?
Certainly.
I'm fairly established now—confidential friend of the family.
I expect my servant here presently, when he comes be so good as to tell him to bring round my cabriolet, without loss of time.
Yes, Sir.
Captain Plausible! your generous friendship has laid us under a lasting obligation.
She's handsomer than ever—egad, I must strike while the iron's hot.
Disappointments! I must not ask you to confide them to me.
Confide them to you? Alas! I must not—such is my hard fate, that there alone
where I might find relief I dare not seek it.
And why not? Are we not friends? Speak I entreat of you, and whatever you tell me shall, if you wish it, be kept secret both by myself and husband.
Confound her husband!
What did you say?
But if it were a secret—a secret that could only be entrusted to a woman—to—in one word—I am in love!
This is not a proper confidence from a married man.
Oh! if you would but befriend me with her—intercede for me!
Do I know her?
Since then you deign to ask me, emboldened by the question—
The cabriolet is at the door, Sir.
I wish his neck were under the wheel!
What is the meaning of all this? I don't wonder at his confusion with his
particular manner and his sentimentality, the very servant seemed to be staring
at us. I don't at all like this confidence of his. However, as I have taken the
letter, I suppose I may as well read it.
Come, I've cleared the house of two of them, and shall soon get rid of the rest.
Am I in my right senses? I scarcely believe the evidence of my own eyes.
Why, what is the matter, Julia?
Do not ask me, but read. What have I done—what have I done to expose myself to such a cruel insult?
Insult from Plausible!
Charles, where are you going?
To annihilate him—sweep him off the surface of the earth.
No, Charles, he is beneath your anger.
So he is, but I'll kill him nevertheless.
Pshaw! The first thing to be thought of is to instantly return his five hundred pounds.
How can I return what I have this moment paid away?
What are we to do then?
Nothing; we are helpless, disgraced, insulted, ruined.
Dear Charles, this violent agitation will throw you into a fever.
But it's all your fault; whoever heard of giving a bill to a milliner?
My fault, Sir—you would never had any occasion to borrow if you hadn't spent every farthing of your own long before it came due.
Yes, ma'am, but who was the cause of this extravagance? you had always some want, some caprice or other.
Now that you are ashamed of your folly, you try to throw all the blame upon
me.
Forgive me, Julia, don't cry. I'm half distracted, and don't know what I say. I shall be better after I've killed Plausible.
Never mind, young man, I'll find the way.
Dry up your tears—here comes uncle.
Heyday, what's the matter? this is a change indeed—quarrelling!
No! it was nothing.
So much the better. There are troubles enough in the world, without our unnecessarily adding to the number.
He has come for the seven hundred pounds! What am I to say to him?
You haven't the money, then, as you led me to expect, either in the house or at your banker's?
No; unfortunately I have been called upon unexpectedly to pay some rather heavy bills, but that will make no difference.
Come now, be candid with me—there's something wrong; you are suffering me to put you to an inconvenience.
No, not in the least.
Then you have been borrowing money?
No, indeed, no.
Then, my dear boy, I have guessed your secret. From a manly independent
spirit, which I admire exceedingly, you have determined to trust for this money
to no one but yourself; and to accommodate me you have been making great
personal sacrifices—you have been parting with some of your comforts and
enjoyments—sold your horses and carriages—given up your country house,
perhaps—parted with your pictures—
Useless?
Useless? The idea of seven hundred pounds being useless!
I was ignorant of it this morning; but through the totally unexpected failure
of two of the largest houses in the trade, I have lost one hundred thousand
pounds, and unless I can command five-and-twenty thousand to meet immediate
claims, my insolvency will be declared. It's all over! I'm a ruined man! I'm a
ruined man!
When must the money be forthcoming?
To-morrow. I shall never survive the disgrace! The credit of our house has been maintained with spotless integrity for three whole generations. I can't bear it I shall blow out my brains!
Yes, do—I mean, don't.
Oh, for heaven's sake, uncle, don't talk so! bear up—bear up!
Give way like this? a man of your superior mind?
But is there any help to be had?
We don't know.
What are you going to do?
Is it possible, when he talked of selling the horses and furniture, that it didn't strike you?
What! really sell them?
Yes; carriage—horses—houses—furniture—Bellevue, everything shall go; it will fetch — Don't leave your uncle. I shall be back again presently.
Well, my only consolation is, that you are happier than I am, and that you strive to govern your family with care and economy.
I can scarcely contain myself! If he knew all, he wouldn't talk to me so.
That detestable man come back! He will expose everything! How am I to get rid of him before my husband returns?
Faithful to my word, I have the honour to hand you a copy of the deed—you
will find everything in proper form.
What is that paper, Julia?
I can no longer disguise the truth. We have been borrowing money of
this—gentleman!
How, Ma'am!—this proceeding—
Is the least you merit after the insult you have dared to show me.
Insult, my child?
Under the base pretence of serving his friend, he would have betrayed the
wife.
In the absence, young gentleman, of this lady's husband, I must request you to leave the house, or, old as I am, hang me if I don't kick you out!
Kick? Really, Sir, this language is scarcely in accordance with the tone of good society. You are probably not aware that I am Mr. Prudent's landlord?
Will you leave the house, Sir?
Uncle—dear uncle!
Your uncle? I beg your pardon!—then he is sacred from my anger.
Will you leave the house?
I am sorry to say, uncle, there is a little account to settle.
Make out your claim, Sir!—what is the amount of your debt?
That I am not obliged to explain to you.
But I insist upon your telling me immediately.
Well, Sir, since you insist, five hundred pounds.
There is a cheque to that amount.
I feel quite at a loss to understand all this.
It's all right, my dear sir, the money will be ready to-morrow morning. There's to be a sale here of all our plate and pictures, jewellery, horses, &c., and another at Robins's—Bellevue's as good as gone, and my lawyer will advance the five-and-twenty thousand pounds.
This is indeed good news—I have saved him in spite of himself.
You here, Sir? I have a different account to settle with you—here are your
five hundred pounds.
No, you mistake—the money is now due to that gentleman.
Yes, Charles, the debt is now discharged.
And all that remains for me to do, is to give you an acknowledgment in full.
What are we all about?—will any one have the kindness to explain?
That will I. very fine qualities would have utterly ruined you; so I trusted
to you doing for me what I was perfectly certain you wouldn't be persuaded to do
for yourself. Generous-hearted fellow that you are—you have shewn me
that I didn't reckon without my host.
Eh? I see. You're not ruined after all?—
No, nor you either.
Uncle, I thank you for the lesson.
As soon as we have got over the sale, you shall come down to us in the country, and the remainder of the five-and-twenty thousand pounds shall bear liberal interest in the business. Are you agreed?
I embrace the offer with all my heart. I'll become a man of business—plunge into trade—open a shop—set up a stall at the corner of the street,—I don't care what; but an idle gentleman I'll be no more!
And when you've grown older and wiser, you can return again, you know, to town.
Certainly, we shall be delighted to see you, and if, in the meantime, there is any thing I can do for you, just drop me a line.
I shall drop you over the bannister if you don't go.
Don't put yourself to the slightest inconvenience on my account.
The coxcomb! To think I should ever have been deceived by such a charlatan!
Well, uncle, you have fairly saved your naughty nephew.
Yes, and my no less naughty niece.
Yes, Julia, my dear, you certainly have been very much to blame.
I am sure, Charles, it has been much more your fault than mine.
And I to the gentlemen.
What! divide the house? No—rather let us hope that on this occasion
it will unanimously sanction the moral of our little play, that
husbands and wives who wish their happiness to last, must practice caution—
Prudence—
And not live too fast!